Friday in the third week of Lent

Dear friends,

The first canticle in the daily cycle of Christian prayer, since time immemorial, has been the Venite, exultemus Domino, Psalm 95: O Come, let us sing unto the Lord..."  Near the end of the Psalm there is a plea to us as we prepare for another day, which is partly why it has always been the first song of the morning:

O that today you would listen to his voice, harden not your hearts.

In today's poem, American Dorianne Laux doesn't want to teach us anything in particular, or use her words to reflect on any theological or philosophical theme.  She begins by telling us, calmly, a story.  

She went to bed and she had a thought - perhaps something about herself - and she sensed it was the voice of God.  We all have those moments of insight at night, and we know we should get up and write them down - but we usually don't.  She didn't either.

Her description hints at a similar theme to when God spoke to Elijah from the first book of the Kings (19.11-13)

"And God said, Go forth, and stand upon the mount before the Lord. And, behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.  And it was so, when Elijah heard it, that he wrapped his face in his mantle..."

In Laux's words, her memory of God's voice was "not like food, sweet or sharp.  More like a fine powder, like dust."

She closes with a few words that come close to lesson for all of us.  It appears as more of an admission of our shared lack of attention to the truth: "That’s how it is sometimes —  God comes to your window,  all bright light and black wings, and you’re just too tired to open it."

O that today you would listen to his voice, harden not your hearts.

Dust
by Dorianne Laux

Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognised it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavour --
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn’t elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That’s how it is sometimes --
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you’re just too tired to open it.